1   This faint resemblance of thy charms,      (Though strong as mortal art could give,)   My constant heart of fear disarms,      Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 2   Here, I can trace the locks of gold      Which round thy snowy forehead wave;   The cheeks which sprung from Beauty’s mould,      The lips, which made me Beauty’s slave. 3   Here I can trace—ah, no! that eye,      Whose azure floats in liquid fire,   Must all the painter’s art defy,      And bid him from the task retire. 4   Here, I behold its beauteous hue;      But where’s the beam so sweetly straying,   Which gave a lustre to its blue,      Like Luna o’er the ocean playing? 5   Sweet copy! far more dear to me,      Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,   Than all the living forms could be,      Save her who plac’d thee next my heart. 6   She plac’d it, sad, with needless fear,      Lest time might shake my wavering soul,   Unconscious that her image there      Held every sense in fast control. 7   Thro’ hours, thro’ years, thro’ time, ’twill cheer—      My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;   In life’s last conflict ’twill appear,      And meet my fond, expiring gaze.